


get to heaven

by attheborder



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Author Knows Nothing About UK Criminal Law, M/M, Michael Sheen's Excellent Murderface, Murder Mystery, Police Procedural, Profiler Crowley, Role Reversal, Serial Killer Aziraphale, Weird Cult Shit, casefic, kind of?!?!, yall mind if i wild out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 01:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21499243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: Gabriel Hammer, prominent leader of the apocalyptic Eternal Church of the Great Creator cult, has been murdered. Disgraced detective Anthony Crowley is assigned to the case, and must form an alliance with the one person who’s left the cult and lived to tell the tale.That person just happens to be the prolific serial killer known as the Soho Shrike. Aziraphale Z. Fell doesn’t seem dangerous, locked in his glass cage. He loves classical music, old books, and good food; he's a brilliant conversationalist, and takes a shine to Crowley right away.But as Crowley falls deeper and deeper into orbit around him, he’ll be forced to confront the darkness of his own past, and discover things about himself— and Aziraphale— that will change everything for the both of them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 185





	get to heaven

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this kink meme prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=1014376), plus generous helpings of certain television shows you may have seen...
> 
> tags and rating may change!

_yes, it's the back of your mind, it's the hand of a god_  
_it's the thought that you might have done it but you can't know why_  
_ooh, don't you waste any life, there's a truth in the blood  
there's a thing he was always saying and it is no words_

**—[everything everything, to the blade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=It6OTZD140E)**

They’ve got him in a special part of the hospital, of course. Crowley figures most of the orderlies have never been inside; the hardened-looking one that leads him down the whitewashed hallway has a badge with all sorts of extra stamps on it, probably marking special certifications needed to deal with the kind of criminals kept behind these doors. 

The orderly ushers him through a checkpoint and points him to the single chair that’s been set out for him, in front of the tempered glass of the cell window.

Crowley rounds the corner, the window comes into view— and there he is. 

The Soho Shrike. 

Crowley didn’t know what he expected. A wild beard, perhaps, untamed hair gone grey, bloodshot eyes or a drooling mouth. 

But Aziraphale Z. Fell, standing behind the glass, is as pristine and postured as the day they knocked down the door of his bookshop to take him into custody, all those years ago. 

His beige jumpsuit looks for all the world like it’s been carefully hand-ironed. His cell is lined with books and maps, stacked in roguishly chaotic piles. His face is guileless and clear, already wearing a smile at the prospect of a new visitor, even this slouched, tired-looking man in a black suit bearing the badge of the Metropolitan Police. 

“Hello,” says the killer. 

“Anthony J. Crowley. Scotland Yard,” Crowley says. “Call me Crowley.” His voice doesn’t waver. He isn’t scared. Despite everything, he’s still a goddamn professional. And after all, Beatrice has told him: this is his chance. HIs chance to get it all back. Everything he’s lost. It all depends on what happens here.

Aziraphale looks him up and down. “Crowley, Crowley… I know that name,” he says, his lips falling apart slightly in thought. “ _That’s_ right. On the news, just last year. All those children, and you— oh, my dear boy. I’m so sorry.” 

Crowley’s blood rushes in his ears. Aziraphale’s sympathies sound utterly genuine. Like he’s legitimately heartbroken at the very thought of what Crowley’s been through. Of all people. 

“They called you a hero, you know,” Aziraphale says kindly. 

Crowley begins to mumble something, one of the stock phrases he’s got loaded for moments like this, _appreciate that thanks_ or _it’s all right really,_ but before he can make much headway into humility Aziraphale’s interrupting him. 

“Oh, but such things obviously aren’t what you came all this way to discuss— where _are_ my manners! Mr. Crowley, to what do I owe this exquisite pleasure?” 

Crowley had been prepared for a psycho. A raving madman, broken by the system. What he hadn’t been prepared for was Aziraphale’s clear-eyed intelligence, his politeness, his eloquence— and he _certainly_ hadn’t been prepared for the way Aziraphale is _looking_ at him now, looking with a curiosity of endless depth that Crowley fears has the power to split open the inches-thick glass that lies between them and then split _him_ open, for good measure.

Aziraphale looks… _hungry._

Crowley takes a deep breath, remembers his training, and prepares to regain the upper hand in this encounter. 

“Gabriel Hammer is dead.” 

It lands. Aziraphale’s river-gray eyes widen; he takes a slight step backwards. The joviality of moments prior vanishes into surprise.

“Dead…? How—”

“Murdered.” 

Aziraphale nods, slowly. He presses his hand to the bridge of his nose, and, what the hell, of course he’s somehow managed to keep his nails perfectly manicured in there. 

“A pity,” he says softly, “a pity…” 

Crowley busies himself pulling the paper files he’s brought along from his briefcase. He prefers his iPad, but the hospital people were very strict about what would be allowed to be passed through to Fell. He had to go all the way down to Pulsifer in Records for this damned stuff. 

As Crowley removes the papers, Aziraphale’s eyes track his movements with interest. “I assume you’ve come to me because of my... history with Gabriel,” the killer says slowly. 

“You’re one of the only people to successfully extract yourself from the Great Creator cult that hasn’t left the country or died,” says Crowley, matter-of-factly, “and my supervisor seems to be of the opinion that you can offer us useful context as to—“

“Not a cult,” Aziraphale cuts in, “a _church._ The Eternal Church.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Semantics are important, my dear. Words have power.” Then Aziraphale changes the subject, perhaps a bit too fast, but Crowley should’ve seen this one coming. “Why do you wear those sunglasses?”

“Intimidation. Is it working?”

“I see,” says Aziraphale. His eyes flick downwards, and there’s that hunger again, now directed at the files in Crowley’s hands. “Might I—?” 

“These are police property, so be careful,” Crowley says, placing the files in the transfer drawer off to the side of the window.

Aziraphale makes an exaggerated, theatrical motion at the camera in the corner of his cell, enunciating precisely and loudly: “I am but a humble prisoner, existing on the privileges awarded to me thanks to my own good behavior. Careful is all I can afford to be.” Crowley pushes the drawer forward, and Aziraphale takes the files eagerly.

As Aziraphale reads, Crowley talks him through it, a little unnecessarily, perhaps, but he feels uncomfortable at the prospect of letting silence reign in this strange bifurcated bubble he’s found himself in. If he lets quiet fall, he worries he’ll hear— well, there are plenty of things he doesn’t wish to hear. 

"We don’t know when he died. Best estimate for time of death Anath— our pathologist could give was about five to six days ago, give or take. He was found in his Bentley, parked out in an industrial estate in Battersea.”

“They hadn’t reported him missing?” asks Aziraphale, paging through the reports. “That’s odd, given his position—” 

“Best we can tell, he was supposed to be on a business trip,” Crowley explains. “It was only when he didn’t show up for Sunday services that the disappearance got called in.” 

Aziraphale is quiet for a moment, squinting down at the page, and then he says: “Something’s been left out of this autopsy report.”

Crowley waits for the penny to drop.

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, face held curiously still. “When they found him,” he says, “his eyes were gone, weren’t they?” 

“I can’t comment on anything not included in what you have there,” Crowley says, sticking to protocol. They both know Aziraphale’s right, but to acknowledge it would be to arrive early to the chilling truth of why Crowley has really been sent here. Better to just go step by step, play the game. Stick to the path, don’t get lost in the wood, there are things lurking in the dark.

 _Don’t let him get under your skin, Crowley,_ Beatrice had said. Crowley had found that in rather bad taste, given, well, you know, but that was Beatrice Lazenby for you. 

He clears his throat, and continues. “We want to ask you some specific questions about the hierarchy and interior workings of the cu— the Church, as you remember them.”

Aziraphale nods. “You believe with my help, you’ll be able to bring Gabriel’s killer to justice?” He glances meaningfully up at the camera again. How much of this is a show he’s putting on, Crowley wonders, and for whose benefit? 

“Yes,” Crowley answers simply, and he waits, because he didn’t get to where he was without knowing almost _too_ well how people work, and he _knows_ that someone like Aziraphale could only have one question for him. 

“Hm. As much as I wish I could sustain myself on the irony of this situation alone, I am a creature of comforts. So, I must ask: what would be in it for me?”

There it is. 

Aziraphale is standing close to the window now, inches away, having placed the files down on his bed. Crowley has a distinctly _l'appel du vide-_ flavored urge to stand, walk forward, close the distance between them until no air separates their faces, only glass. 

He knows how magnetic psychopaths can be. He knows how they draw you in, warp your worldview to match their desires. His caseload over the years has shown him, over and over again, how people like the man before him function, and the danger they pose to anyone they encounter.

Here, though, in this antiseptic ward, everything about Aziraphale manages to scream to him, _he’s different, he’s not like the others._

But Crowley knows better these days than to trust his own instincts. The only thing he can trust now is cold, hard logic. 

“There’s plenty in it for you,” says Crowley, remaining resolutely seated. “We can go over it, if you agree to our terms. Increased library access. An improved menu. Perhaps even that stereo you’ve been asking for.” 

At this, Aziraphale grins, and it’s blinding. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he says. “That all sounds rather lovely.” 

The way he says his name. _Crowley._ Curling around those soft lips, shaping the curve of his cheek, pulling back to reveal the straightest, whitest teeth. _Crowley, Crowley._

Crowley suppresses a shiver. Aziraphale’s hands are held neatly behind his back, hidden from sight. But Crowley knows what those hands have done, what they’re capable of. There’s not a soul in London who was paying attention when Aziraphale went into this place that doesn’t know those grisly details. 

“I think we’re going to make a _wonderful_ team,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s just gotten himself into.

***

“Faced the Principality and lived to tell the tale, have you?” 

Beatrice Lazenby is towering over Crowley’s desk; inasmuch as a woman of her height can physically tower, but with her it’s all in the posture and the scowl. He wonders if anyone’s ever tried to get her to wear heels, and if so, how hard they got slapped for their trouble.

“Hullo, Bea,” says Crowley. He doesn’t even bothering to look up from his computer screen; Beatrice will make herself heard no matter what, her light lisp buzzing and burrowing insistently into his ears.

He’d refreshed himself on Aziraphale’s case before he went in, of course, but he finds himself reopening the tabs all over again now, in the wake of their first meeting. It’s an entirely different experience now, seeing that pale face in the photographs and having such recent personal memories to hold it up against, compare it to like a Spot-The-Difference game. In the pixellated eyes of the Aziraphale on his screen Crowley can see just as much remorse as he had sensed from behind the glass— which is to say, none at all. 

Beatrice slams a small but powerful hand down by Crowley’s keyboard, making his potted succulents jump a few millimeters into the air. 

“You didn’t get much out of him the first go. When I put you on this, it wasn’t with the expectation you’d take your damned time. This is a high-priority investigation.” 

“I got plenty out of him,” Crowley says, finally turning to look at his boss. “That thing with the eyes— his reaction was interesting, given Stern’s theory that Fell’s involved somehow, or knows more than he ought to.” 

“What do _you_ think?” Beatrice asks. 

“It’s in my report.” 

“Like I’ve got time to read that. Tell me.” 

Crowley sighs. What’s the use in writing the bloody reports if nobody ever reads them? “When I told him Hammer was dead, he went stiff as a board. There was— there was surprise there,” he says, closing his eyes, picturing the microexpressions that flitted across Aziraphale’s face in that moment, matching them against his well-worn internal catalog, “but also anger, and curiosity, and disappointment. No _fear,_ though. Not the look of a man worried he’ll be caught out.” 

Beatrice allows the hint of an approving smile to pass across her permanently pinched face. “I’ll take your word for it.” She sighs; Crowley can tell a reluctant compliment is about to wing his way. “Knew you’d be a good fit for this case, no matter what Karlsson said.”

“You’re not going to regret giving me this chance,” Crowley says, not half pleadingly. God, to be back in the field for real once this is done, back doing what he does best. He’s had more than enough of this desk jockey bullshit. More than enough of this hellish disgrace, disguised as honor. 

Beatrice peers now over Crowley’s shoulder, at the article pulled up on his screen, the _Telegraph_ headline blaring its five-year-old news in garish letters: _“Soho Shrike” In Custody - Neighbours of Bookseller A.Z. Fell Shocked At Butchery In Their Very Backyards._

She grimaces. “Horrid. What he did to those men. Boils the blood, it does. This sort of thing is why I joined the force. Getting sick fucks like him off the streets.”

“That so,” says Crowley. “Good a reason as any, I suppose.”

Beatrice nods thoughtfully. “Don’t think you’ve ever told me why you joined up, Crowley.”

“Stuff happened,” Crowley says with a shrug, and keeps the rest to himself. “How are Double Trouble faring?”

“They’re still out there, trying to shake down the cultists,” sighs Beatrice. “Lost cause, but there’s no use telling them that.” 

Crowley knows what she means. _Persistent_ might be the only positive adjective he’d feel comfortable using to describe Detectives Lionel Gurvey and Harry Stern.

“If you’d just let me have a go, I think I could—” Crowley begins, but Beatrice clearly is not in the mood to argue this point with him again, and with a dismissive wave of her hand wanders off back to her office to scream at someone on the phone.

Crowley heaves a sigh, and turns his attention back to his computer. Aziraphale’s face, crisp in its newswire photograph, stares back, and Crowley’s chest gives a little leap, which he flattens with a few practiced deep breaths. 

He thinks he did well, though, all things considered, back there at Bedlam. A rapport was established. If he can just keep up that level of professional detachment, he’ll be able to extract the necessary information to crack the case in no time at all.

Beatrice pings him from her office with instructions to work on compiling the dossier of everyone in the greater London area who might have had it out for Gabriel Hammer. It’s a harder task than her usual laconic manner might indicate. 

The Church has real estate holdings all over the United Kingdom, concentrated in London. Their business dealings, under the auspices of Gabriel’s leadership, have expanded in recent years to include telecommunications, publishing, and manufacturing. 

Any of his business rivals might have had reason to call in a hit. (If it _was_ a hit, which Crowley has doubts about, despite Gurvey’s insistence that the killing reeked of organized crime.) 

The families of those drawn into the Church’s web, too, would have reason to want to take out its head. As revenge for the loss of their loved ones, who, while not _dead,_ per se, would have been cut off from all contact with non-members as condition of their initiation. 

And Gabriel had certainly made plenty of enemies in the public at large, with his controversial comments on everything from the role of women in the household to the more unsavory aspects of the current political situation.

But then, of course, there is the curious manner of the death itself. Strangled by his tie, with his eyes cut out— the exact method of dispatch which the Soho Shrike, known internally at Scotland Yard by the codename Principality, had, at his trial, sworn to deliver to the very man who turned him in and testified against him. 

The proclamation was widely reported, of course, so that doesn’t really narrow it down, except insofar that it was obvious that whoever killed Gabriel had _wanted_ to draw Aziraphale into it all. To implicate him, as Stern would have it? Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps just to send a message. 

But _what_ message, Crowley has no idea. 

***  
  


“The Eternal Church of the Great Creator,” Crowley prompts. Again, he sits, while Aziraphale paces inside his cell, hands held primly behind him. “Tell me about it. I’ve been briefed, but—”

“You love to hear a story told, I know. I can tell,” says Aziraphale. “Were you read to, as a child? Would be a pity, if you weren’t.”

“This isn’t about me,” says Crowley. He’s got plenty he’s saving for when Aziraphale needs something to chew on, but there’s no use in playing his hand early.

“Very well. The Great Creator,” says Aziraphale, “or the Almighty, as She is called, is the central object of worship for the Church. She is a cruel and capricious god, venerated for her violence, unknowable and unseeable except through the chosen prophets of the Church.”

“Like Gabriel?” 

“Most recently, yes.” 

“How are these prophets chosen? Popular vote?

There’s a twinkle in Aziraphale’s eye as he says, plainly, “Miracles.”

“Miracles, really?” Crowley can’t help but cackle a bit.

“When Gabriel was nine years old,” Aziraphale says, “this was shortly after I was brought into the fold, so I remember it clearly— we were at Hampstead Heath, an outing of Church children. The sky was blue as anything. Gabriel was running, to catch a ball, I think, out into a wide open area, and then— _BANG!”_

This last word he yells, punctuated with a stomp of his foot and a hard pound on the glass, and Crowley only barely manages to avoid jumping out of his seat. The _bastard,_ trying to scare him—! 

Crowley thinks he’s annoyed at it, for a moment, but then realizes that, no— he’s _grateful._ For the last year, everyone’s been on their damn tiptoes around him, worried they’ll somehow set him off, as if he were a bomb. It’s only now, with Aziraphale’s cheerful failure to maintain that kind of caution, that Crowley realizes how much of a burden it’s been to endure. 

Aziraphale goes on. “A bolt from the blue. A massive strike of lightning, coming down right on top of him. He should’ve died. One billion volts of electricity, surging through a child’s body— he was a large boy, even then, but still.” 

“What happened then?”

Aziraphale smiles. “The Almighty had singled him out for a miraculous act, a blessing of pain and suffering. He awoke alive, nearly undamaged, a few days later.”

“... _Nearly_ undamaged?” Crowley asks, cursing his own curiosity.

“Yes. Do you know what a Lichtenberg figure is?”

Crowley shakes his head.

“It’s a branching fractal pattern, resembling a sort of tree. They appear in surfaces affected by electrical discharge. In this case, the surface was Gabriel’s skin. The lightning strike imprinted itself upon him, all down his back and sides. The mark of a prophet.”

“Wow,” says Crowley skeptically. He can feel the force of Aziraphale’s passion radiating out at him from behind the glass; as he speaks the killer’s body language shifts, opens in ways that would be imperceptible to a more untrained eye than Crowley’s.

 _That’s something,_ Crowley thinks. 

Despite everything— Aziraphale still believes. 

And oh, what must that be like?

“As Gabriel grew up, he began to accumulate power almost supernaturally easily, inside and outside of the Church. He really seemed to be Chosen. Things just fell into his lap. When he came of age he ascended officially to the spiritual leadership of the group, and it was then that the Church began to transform from a mere millennial congregation into the sprawling beast we all know—”

“Millenarian.”

“Sorry?”

“You mean, _millenarian._ Millennial is, y’know, the generation.” 

Crowley expects a scowl at the interruption, some display of huffy offense by the caged man. But instead, Aziraphale grins widely, indulgently, even. Is he _flattered?_

“That’s right. Of course. I haven’t been sleeping well since your last visit, my mind’s all a-twitter… And you know, ever since I became a convicted murderer, _very_ few people have been willing to correct me on anything,” says Aziraphale. “You’re an odd one, Crowley.” 

Crowley clears his throat, pushes his shades up his nose, rearranges his artful, hypercasual slouch in the uncomfortable chair placed exactingly in front of the cell’s window.

“Tell me about the last time you saw Gabriel.”

Aziraphale purses his lips, reticent. “It’s a matter of public record, my dear, I’m sure you—” 

“Humor me,” says Crowley, and leans forward, wondering if such a blatantly calculated combination of verbal and physical flirtation could possibly actually have an effect. 

But it does. 

“It was at my trial,” begins Aziraphale slowly. “He testified against me. Told the judge how I was as a child. The things I’d do.” 

“Right. And you swore right then and there that you’d kill him.”

“I did,” admits Aziraphale. “I thought I’d have more time, to be honest. He was always such a healthy man. I had so many _ideas_ of what I’d do to him, when I got the chance. Honestly, I’d moved past the whole tie-and-eyes deal mere weeks after the trial. My fantasies grew vast and sophisticated.” He sighs, heavily, dramatically. “Because, you see, Crowley, he _lied.”_

“Sorry?” Accusations of perjury had not been brought up in the courtroom, as far as Crowley knew.

“He lied,” Aziraphale repeats, “about me, up there on the stand, he was _lying._ I never did any of those _horrid_ things, to animals, to other children, I would _never—!”_

“The other witnesses—” 

“Were other members of the Church. Loyal to him. I’m sure you have experience with that sort of thing, given the fact that you’ve had to come to _me_ for insight. The Church members you’ve spoken to are covering for each other, I assume? Alibis as far as the eye can see?” 

Crowley shakes his head. “But why didn’t you say anything? Defend yourself?”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “You really think that would’ve done me any good?”

“Point taken,” concedes Crowley quickly, wanting Aziraphale to go on, but he’s not sure how much of any of this he believes. He knows serial killers of Aziraphale’s ilk tend to be compulsive, pathological liars. 

“I’d been humiliated enough by then already. I couldn’t possibly expect the judge and jury to understand my motivations, my needs, my _art._ ”

“Safer, then?”

“I’m sorry?”

Crowley lowers his shades, lets Aziraphale catch a glimpse of his eyes, deep brown and rimmed in dark lashes. “It was safer for you, you felt, to be thought of as a traditional psychopathic killer, than to be seen for who you really are. Who you believe yourself to be.” 

Aziraphale tugs at the sleeves of his jumpsuit, straightens his already straight collar, before meeting Crowley’s eyes again. 

“What does safety mean to you, Crowley?” he asks. 

When Crowley doesn’t answer, Aziraphale says, “Do you feel safe, right now?”

“Sure. That glass is thick as anything.”

Aziraphale _pouts,_ and it is a _look_ on him, that is for sure, all wide-eyed mock-disbelief and condescension. “Now, now. You’re not as smart as I thought, my dear boy, if you believe this _glass_ is what’s keeping you safe,” he says.

Crowley doesn’t know what to say to that. Should he crack an off-color joke? Revert to his professional detective tone, to keep things on the level? 

Before he can decide, or utterly fail to, there’s a hand on his shoulder, and this time he really does jump out of his seat. “Time’s up,” says the warden, a gruff older man whose name Crowley didn’t catch. 

Crowley steadies himself, glances down at his watch. “But it’s only been twenty minutes. I’ve got an hour—” 

“Fire drill’s scheduled,” says the warden. “We need all visitors out, for security reasons. Gotta get him secured afore the alarm goes off.”

“Nobody told me about a damn fire drill!” Crowley complains, feeling ripped off in a way that goes slightly beyond what is justifiable. He had a lot more on the docket to ask Aziraphale, pertinent stuff like _why do you think someone would use your proclaimed method to kill your proclaimed nemesis,_ but he finds he’s more upset at the notion of simply not being in Aziraphale’s presence for as long as planned as he is at the prospect of an upbraiding from Beatrice. Which isn’t good. 

“Don’t look at me like that, laddie,” scowls the warden. “Probably some cock-up on your end.” He strides out of the cell, muttering indistinctly about _ach, coppers, all the same, self-righteous whinging buggers..._

Crowley is herded out, but he can’t help but look back to see the orderly opening the door to the cell, and snapping thick plastic handcuffs around Aziraphale’s wrists. 

And for a moment, for the first time, his eyes catch Aziraphale’s and there is no glass in between them. Nothing but air.

It’s fear he should be feeling, if he were to be feeling anything now. He knows this, rationally. Fear at the eyes of a killer. The same helpful, human fear that keeps him safe on the job, keeps his instincts sharp. 

But he _knows_ fear, knows it like a friend, knows it better than any friend, even, because it’s not like he has very many, and this, _this,_ the jolt through his veins, the heat at the seat of him— it isn’t fear. It’s something else entirely.

***

“Fuckin’ cults,” Gurvey is saying, through a mouthful of chicken tikka. “Bloody hate fuckin’ cults.” 

“Nasty business,” agrees Stern, next to him, digging into his chips. “Who’d be stupid enough to join? Can never figure it out.” He reaches an arm across Gurvey’s front to grab the ketchup and on the way manages to drag his jacket sleeve right through the tikka. 

Gurvey gives him the stinkeye. “Not about _stupid,_ ” he counters. “S’about bad luck. Takin’ advantage of people. Clever lot, I’ll give ‘em that, but Hell to deal with the mess they make.”

“Six hours in that damned compound,” says Stern, masticating ferociously, “and we’ve gotta go back _tomorrow_ , too. Nobody’s upset Hammer’s kicked it _except_ those loonies. So why’ve we got to keep at them like this?” 

“We’ll crack ‘em,” Gurvey says encouragingly. “We’re the best, ain't we?”

Crowley is in front of the microwave in the break room, warming up something frozen and horrible. He’s not much for eating; never has been. Whatever the bare minimum of calories needed to get him through the day is, that’s what he chokes down. 

Behind him, Stern and Gurvey, seemingly having exhausted their capacity to discuss work-related matters, move back to the muddled middle of a personal conversation that Crowley wasn’t privy to the beginning of. Something regarding Gurvey’s wife Michaela, a legal issue, a fight, a braid of mundane events so stultifyingly domestic that Crowley’s ears transcend biology and switch off in self-preservation. 

He scarfs down his lunch standing up, quick as he can, then makes a run for it. “See you, lads,” says Crowley, and Tweedlee and Tweedledum grunt their mandatory acknowledgement as he slips out of the break room. 

Crowley always feels a frisson when he enters Anathema Device’s domain, like he’s descended into another realm entirely. He’s heard her annoyed spiel about how Facilities wouldn’t let her actually hang up the most _lovely_ black bead curtains at the entrance to the morgue, but he hardly thinks they would be necessary— there is already a sense, fully-fledged, of _passing through_ when you step inside. A curtain would just be banging you over the head with it: _welcome, welcome, things are different here._

She hasn’t let Facilities deter her, however, from lighting up a truly unhinged amount of candles in between postmortems. Right now the morgue is aglow with tiny pinpoints of light as she types up a report at the computer, but she jumps to attention as Crowley enters, grinning at him. 

He’s come bearing a bribe; an expensive bar of ultradark chocolate, infused with lavender and mushroom powder and gold leaf. 

“Oh, AJ, you shouldn’t have!” Anathema says happily, taking the bar from him with eager, black-enameled fingers. 

“Well, I did,” says Crowley. She’s the only one who gets to call him that. “Now, let’s check out those scars.”

With a cheeky grin, Anathema swooshes in her long skirt over to the drawers and pulls out the one containing the corpse of Gabriel Hammer. 

“At first I thought they were related to cause of death, and I was so excited, death by lightning is so _rare,_ you know,” she chatters away in that adorable American accent, “but unfortunately the scars were old, and it was the asphyxiation that did it— you do know that, right?”

“I do,” says Crowley. “But I just wanted to see for myself.”

“It must have _hurt,”_ says Anathema, quieter now. “The way the scars are stretched out— the strike happened when he was just a kid. Ten or eleven years old, maybe. Not that I feel bad for him. Cause I don’t. Cause he was terrible. But, you know. Ouch.” 

It’s strange, seeing the fractal patterns dance across the dead man’s skin. He realizes he’d been assuming Aziraphale was lying, somehow, or exaggerating. But no, there they are, exactly as described. They ripple and arc and branch, seeming to draw Crowley’s eyes inexorably along their length, hypnotic and eerie. 

What does it mean, that Aziraphale wasn’t lying when he told Crowley his strange tale? What does it mean, that he is a killer who isn’t a liar— at least, not to Crowley? 

Crowley sits with Anathema on a morgue bench, and they share the chocolate and stare at the dead body. The dead body does not stare back, because it has no eyes. 

He thinks of prophets and lightning strikes and big black Bentleys abandoned by the riverside. He thinks of a rising tide, and all that is left after it drains away. And he thinks of Aziraphale, perhaps more free than he looks to be at first glance, locked up in that cage. More free, even, than Crowley himself. 

Crowley does not think he’ll sleep well tonight.

***

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> a bit out of my usual wheelhouse, but i've wanted to write a murder mystery for ages! i hope you enjoy following along, come talk to me on tumblr [@areyougonnabe](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com)
> 
> story title & all chapter titles are from [this all-time greatest album](https://open.spotify.com/album/2UJUCicAuQjIqBOFIvPzIx?si=Bkk4yty8TCylZOALSTC96g) by everything everything.


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